Black and White Morality in Fleet Street
by writerdude3000
Summary: An expansive story that tells the tale of a woman, fueled by the acts of those who've done her wrong, sets out in a gleefully corrupt London to right the wrongs that had been commited so many years ago. Drawing heavily from Sweeney Todd. FOR VIOLENCE AND


**xX… I would like to first off, thank you for reading my story. It certainly was a labor of love. But, before this story begins I must say that really and truly I own absolutely NOTHING. I most certainly do not own Harry Potter, J. K. Rowling does and I do not own the musical: Sweeney Todd, the creators (Stephen Sondheim, Hugh Wheeler, Hal Prince etc…) have ownership over this brilliant musical. Having a certain knowledge in this show helps when reading my story for it draws heavily on the plot and all the song lyrics are by Stephen Sondheim and come from the musical. Thank you, and… enjoy my story. …xX**

**WHITE- Innocence and Ireland**

I think I first saw him, well, re-saw him (more on that later) in my dreams. Of course, I never saw his face. Only his figure, tall and handsome. He would sit at a table in a café and trip me as I carried a large tray of plates. Or else, he'd arise out of some equally odd and distressing scenario. But that dream never moved past the normal niceties of a dream and before long I found myself sweaty and alert, my heart pounding in my ears as I lay quietly in my bed.

On this particular night, the window was open and my sweat felt cold, slowly, I slid off my bed, my feet touching the frigid wood floor. I reeled in discomfort but I plowed on and took the five steps to my window, bravely, I shut it closed and slid the lock on, slowly lowering the drapes for a final effect. I made my way to my closet and carried the electric blanket to my bed. I plugged it in and set it on my bed, ready to spread it. Suddenly feeling very tired I collapsed onto my bed and fell asleep. He returned into my mind, he was talking now- but I couldn't hear his voice.

The electric blanket slid, plugged and getting hot, off my bed and onto the ground.

OxOxO

The problem with working at a church is the intense feeling of guilt and perversion in the air at all times. Even as I take out the bulky, 80s vintage, earplugs and hang them on the rack I feel as if I should be repenting for something, this instant. What's worse is when the Nuns come to visit, they come to see how the donation box is coming and review their little enterprise. They stare at you sternly, with those square jaws sort of slit open. It's very creepy. If I've just been with someone last night I feel even worse. The stained glass windows, the priests, the religious fanatics who come, my entire 9 to 5 is a guilt trip. Lucky for me, in December I don't have to always be worrying about the length of my skirt. It's too damn cold.

Four steaming hot coffees in two hands (when will they start giving out those handy little card board holders!) I push the church door open and rush in out of the cold, the foyer is large and has huge vaulted ceilings, no man made lights, and an array of cold marble floors. Although it's cold outside, it's probably just as cold inside. I put the coffees down and call out,

"Joan? Joan are you in yet?"

I wait for a response, than a muffled,

"MffYEAHMff, MffBE RIGHT OUTMff"

I look at my watch, its 8:45, we open soon.

I take a sip of my coffee and slowly unravel my scarf letting it hang loose around my shoulders, the box is waiting. I take out my key and open the donations box. The bells and the church is free, but who can resist donate a euro or two when some sweet old ladies are batting their eyelids at you? No one. There is a hefty wad of euros and some pretty change laying about. I take out the bills and sort them, folding them into stacks and slipping them in the regulation, inside-the-desk cash box. I take out the change and toss it into the cash box. Who wants to donate when the donation box is already full? The box clean I put it back on its stand, fix its sign and move to unpack the earplugs.

"Hermoine dear, how was the Thai place?"

Joan and I are always trying to find new restaurants, I tried a new Thai one last night.

"Awful, the pad Thai was like a sticky bun loaded with curry…" My voice trailed off, Joan thinks I'm too picky.

"So, that means, it was good?" her accent is thick Irish, not like I'm used to, though I've worked with her for five years.

"Don't kid yourself, Joan, even the waitress looked in disgust when she brought the monstrosity to my table! The chef should be locked in an institution!"

Joan's laugh is full and rich, she throws her head back and lets loose.

"Oh, Hermoine, can you work the upstairs today? Carol phoned in sick." She says apologetically, she knows I hate working the upstairs.

"Can't Dora do it?"

"She won't be in either, her husbands rather ill…"

Both Dora and Carol are borderline 85 and Joan is older though she doesn't care to admit it, I'm the young one. They like to live vicariously through me.

"Fine… I've got it covered."

I look at the two coffees steaming away on the table, untouched.

"I see you eyeing my coffee's miss Granger. I don't think so!"

She can read my mind!

"But there's TWO extra!" I moan, only Joan and I would have this conversation. Two adults.

"You're young, you don't need all this caffeine! I'm headed towards 100, I need all the pump I can get. Men these days have viagra! What do I HAVE?"

She laughs her little head off. Her cropped hair staying stylishly put on her head.

I make my way to the door,

"Ready?"

She nods and says,

"Scarves?

I nod.

"Let's go" slowly, I open the large church doors and put out the sign: OPEN.

Come and ring the bells. Come and climb the tower to the top, see the finest view of Cork. Ring the bells of St. Anne.

OxOxO

My job, handling the upper deck (as we like to call it), is to make sure no one is doing anything stupid. Like falling off, or getting to close to the bells. It's a lame job and usually Dora does it because she says the air helps her sleep. It's 11, I've only got an hour left till lunch. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, it's been a slow day. I glance around Cork. The rooftops are deserted, Cork is quiet this morning. I see an occasionally car motor through the old city.

Where should I dine this afternoon? The café next to the Butter Museum? No… too contrite. I think I'll ask Joan if she'd like to join me at the new French place across the river. It's a trek but the Croque Monsieur is supposed to be divine.

A little girl bounds up the stairs, I get up.

"'Morning," I said in my best cheery-TV personality-voice, "Please don't lean on the railings, love."

Than I see him. He's sitting on the tin roof of a small house about ten or so blocks from the church, he's smoking and reclining. I know that man… where have I seen him before?

My hands get clammy.

. The electric blanket is still plugged in.

OxOxO

"Joan…? I'm out for lunch!"

I bound down the stairs and close the heavy church doors, taking in the OPEN sign.

"Want to try the new French restaurant 'cross the river?"

Man, I am GOOD

"No thanks, not today. I'm just going to pick up a sandwich."

Joan looks crestfallen,

"Oh. Right. S'ok love. I'll see you in an hour."

I smile at her and wrap my scarf around my neck. Fingering my wallet in my sweater pocket I recall the house in my mind and open the large church doors.

I thought I had totally assimilated. I thought I had finally been cured. I was no longer a freak. But here was this man, this man who I'd only seen in silhouettes. He was here, in Cork. Smoking on a rooftop. Suddenly, I remembered.

"_MISS GRANGER! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"_

_Her voice rang out stern and clear from across the corridor. I dropped my wand. . This is what I get for helping those two._

"_Professor… ma'am… I'm just, erm…"_

"_Miss Granger I am VERY disappointed in you. My top student."_

_She shook her head in exasperation; suddenly I felt a wave of guilt run over me. My heart melted. Tears began to flow from my eyes._

"_I'm so sorry… I thought I was helping…"_

_There was a long pause, as she looked at me, her face softened. _

"_Miss Granger, I'm afraid that what you were doing is completely and utterly inappropriate and I have no choice but to…" she took a large gulp of air, "but to… expel you."_

I was there. This was the house, I knew it. I could see the slanted roof and the rust dripping into the street.

As if on cue, the door opened and he walked out. Tall and handsome, his chestnut hair falling over his face. He wore a stripped sweater and a pair of khaki corduroys. A light coat over the sweater. He was in a rush, he walked straight into me.

"Oh, god, so sorry!" he said mumbling, I saw something long and deep red in the inside pocket of his coat.

He dusted himself off, starring at me.

"Hey there… don't I… know you…"

I stare at him, puzzled.

"I'm sorry?"

"It's a line…" he turns his head nonchalantly, "from a musical."

"Oh. Right."

This cannot be the man from my dreams. But there it was, the wand, poking out the inside pocket. We stood, awkwardly for a moment.

"There's something-" I want to say poking out of the inside of your coat and reminding me of things that I'd been trying to forget for upwards of seven years.

But I keep my mouth shut and just nod.

I nod my head in the direction of his wand, he turns bright red and shoves it clumsily back into his coat pocket.

"Oh, yeah… it's my…. erm, scroll."

I can't help chuckling,

"You're scroll?"

"Very religious. VERY"

Oh yes, of course.

"Right."

He looks desperate for a way out of this conversation.

"Don't I know you?" he says again, but not in the high pitched singsong voice.

"I'm not sure…"

"Did we go to school together?"

It can't be. This can't be someone from school. I had made a horrible mistake. He wasn't the man from my dreams. He couldn't be.

"What… um, what musical was that from?" I ask, hoping he won't press on the subject of school.

"Sweeney Todd, maybe from my summer in the states- did you do a program in the states?" he asks.

"Sweeney Todd?"

"The demon barber of fleet street" he says, though distracted and half hearted.

"What?"

"Potter…. No, Weasley… No… god, who else was in my year?"

I flinch. Potter. Weasley. Two names I'd tried so hard to forget.

"The demon barber of who-?"

"Fleet street." He says, now annoyed, "it's a musical about a barber and his accomplice who kill people and put them into pies!" He says, as if everyone should know this.

I take a step back, the sudden outburst shocked me. He must be Irish.

"You should come see it." He says quietly, "Hermione Granger."

I drop my handbag.

"I'm sorry?"

"I knew it was you, I just didn't know who you were. Does that make sense?"

"I'm not quite sure what you mean, I have no idea who you are."

"No?" he looks hurt, "I had a huge crush on you… well, until you got expelled. Who ever would've thought it?"

My eyes are welling up, I've got to get out of here. Suddenly the French restaurant doesn't seem that bad of an idea. It's far from here. All the way across the river.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not… Hermione Granger… There's been a mistake."

He looks hurt, second one today, "Well you should at least come and see me. Cork Civic Opera House." He hands me a flyer, "we open tonight."

I look at him and want to run, or cry. I don't know.

"I'll drop by." I say, fighting back the tears.

"Sorry for all the confusion, you looked like someone I knew. But that was a while ago, I don't know anymore."

He turns to leave, I stand, rooted to my spot as he walks down the street.

I stare at him, tears streaming down my cheeks. But I have no idea why.

"WAIT!" I call. Crap.

He turns around.

"I DON'T KNOW YOUR NAME!" how clichéd. My brain is disgusted but my heart is melting.

"Seamus. Seamus Finnegan."

I let out a short croak, an after thought of my tears.

_Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd._

_His skin was pale and his eye was odd._

_He shaved the faces of gentlemen who never thereafter were heard of again._

_He trod a path that few had trod,_

_Did Sweeney Todd._

_The demon barber of Fleet Street._

For the next month I watched him, every day, from the tower. He would sit on his roof and smoke. Just thinking. Every now and than he'd whip out his wand and do some spell. I couldn't even remember the name of a proper spell, let alone find my wand. I wanted to go to him and tell him the truth, but I couldn't. Than one day, I was walking home.

"Do you want to see a movie?" I froze, his voice rung out from behind me. I turned around and he was grinning like an idiot.

"Sorry?"

"Want to, erm, catch a film. There's a new Wes Anderson pic out." He looked like an idiot in his coat.

"Erm." I glanced at my watch, as if I had something to do. Psh. "Alright."

And thus began the age of Movies. Every Friday on my way home from work, he would say the same thing,

"Want to catch a film?"

I would say

"Erm"

But than I'd give in.

And every weekday I would watch him from the tower. I wonder if he went up there just because he knew where I worked. We never talked about our lives or ourselves. When we were in the theater we only talked about movies or theater. He was well versed in both, more so in theater than I was. It was refreshing to not have to have any sort of commitment with this guy. We paid for our own tickets and snacks, we didn't hold hands, because we weren't dating, and we only talked during the coming shortly-s and when something clichéd would happen. After the film we would just talk about the film until we got to the river. Than he would go his way, and I mine.

OxOxO

On that one fateful Friday, the weather was warm and pleasant. I was wearing my favorite white woven skirt and brown top. As I got to the corner where we always stopped me I called out,

"ERM" before he had ever proposed we go to the movies.

I waited but no one answered my 'erm' and no one even proposed that we go to the cinema. I turned around. There was no one in the street, it was deserted. I woman came out of his house. Very old and hunched over, with a stern face. It was SHE. I reeled.

"I'm sorry, are you waiting for Mister Finnegan?" she asked in her haughty accent.

"Oh, erm, no… it's just that, well, we usually go to the cinema on Fridays."

She looked at me with disgust, as if. Cinemas are for heathens and muggles. I guess I was both.

"Mister Finnegan was called away on some unexpected business. He will be back in a couple of months." She said and turned to go.

"Ma'am?" I called after her, she turned,

"Yes?"

"Do you remember me?"

She took a long pause,

"I'm afraid not, should I?"

"You expelled me once, long ago…"

"I'm afraid I expel lots of children, I can't be expected to remember all of them."

"You expelled me because I was trying to save a students life. Remember?"

She stopped dead in her tracks.

"Miss Granger?" she whispered in a horse, horrified tone.

I nodded my head.

"Miss Granger what have you done with yourself? You're… you're… a muggle!"

I turned in disgust, I didn't even want to hear this woman talk.

"Miss Granger I'm afraid Seamus has been called away to do some, some work for the Ministry."

"He's dead isn't he?"

She looked at me,

"I'm so sorry…" she began to cry.

I was strangely unaffected by this. When Ron had died I had balled my eyes out but suddenly, as people that I loved all around me began dieing. I had stopped caring.

"They broke into his house last night, he was Ginny Weasley's AND Neville Longbottom's secret keeper. First he was tortured than killed. Neville was discovered dead earlier this morning, we rushed here to Seamus's house but… his head was face down into his stove. The flames on high heat. His wand cracked and shoved through him. His neck was cut by what looked like a razor. It was gruesome. We have never seen such a cold, heartless, sick killer as this one. I'm so sorry Miss Granger…" She turned away and I blinked back a tear or two, when I regained focus a cat was skidding down the sidewalk. I turned and went to my apartment where I dug around for hours until I found my wand, it was dusty and peeling in parts, but I felt safer having it in my pocket, even if I couldn't remember any spells at the moment. I turned, locked my door and went for dinner.

OxOxO

That night, I was walking home. I have never felt unsafe on the streets of Cork, it's a small town compared to Dublin and its people are friendly, but something about the way that Seamus was killed unsettled me. A razor? His face burned in the stove. It was something out of a sick horror novel. I looked up the street, no one, not a soul. I took a couple of steps and the street lamp sparked.

"Ah!" I let out a little shriek as the lamp went out. I stopped to regain my composure. I plowed forth.

Suddenly I heard soft whistling. This was all too real. Where had I heard that tune before? I began singing softly, it had come back to me.

_Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd._

_His skin was pale and his eye was odd._

_He shaved the faces of gentlemen who never thereafter were heard of again._

_He trod a path that few have trod,_

_Did Sweeney Todd._

The demon barber of Fleet Street 

I gasped. A man, shrouded in shadows had appeared at the other end of the street.

"Very good m'dear" he said softly, his voice cold and pale.

"Who are you?"

"Don't you know?"

I stood facing him, not wanting to get any closer,

"Should I?" If I hadn't been scarred I might've remarked on how this was straight out of a bad thriller.

"I gave your friend the closest shave of his life."

So this was the person that had killed Seamus. My pulse quickened, I felt like I was going to pass out. I fingered my wand. Trying to think of a spell I'd learned.

"And you've been singing to me, so, so beautifully." He paused, "You are a very VERY beautiful girl you know."

He was disgusting me.

"Sweeney Todd?" I asked, now I wish I'd seen the show, "The demon barber?"

"Yes. Love. And you're my next costumer."

Oooooh that's such a deliciously clichéd line!

But I didn't have time to think, he was approaching me and I saw the gleam of silver in his hand. A knife. A razor. A barber's razor.

"Oh my god."

I was frozen, my feet planted firmly on the spot, I couldn't move. I was petrified. He was so close to me, he was touching me. His cold hands in mine. I could see him, his eyes were a pale red, his face lean and gruff, his cheek filled with whiskers. He wore a large trench coat and dark shoes. His hands grabbed my head and he took my hair in his hands as he pulled me close, until my body was pressed up against his. His rough face touched mine, his lips enclosed on me. I tried to scream, but I couldn't.

And suddenly I felt it. I felt the cold razor touch me skin and my body jerked. My knee twitched, smacking him in the groin. He wheezed. I was ready; I slapped him hard across the face. I hoped to god I didn't have mono now because, Jesus, the last thing I need is mono. He doubled over, his razor dropping to the ground. I scrambled towards it and picked it up.

I hurriedly took out my wand and said the first thing that came to mind, the first spell that came to me:

"" I bellowed and a white jet of light erupted from the tip of my wand, I muttered a curse word as his face filled with puss filled boils. His body was breaking out with them. He was screaming. To this day his voice has not left my mind. My ears. His piercing scream.

I turned my head and grimaced as the boils began popping, the acid that began to flow out of them burned his skin. I could hear him screaming and begging for mercy. But I could hear other screams. I could hear Neville. I heard his scream. Piercing the dark. The sound of his throat being cut, the gurgling sound of his last breath and the blood rushing out of him. I heard laughter. I heard laughter. And that infernal whistling. I could hear Seamus. His voice. His terrified voice echoing through my mind. His voice as he called "WHO'S THERE" to the creak on the floorboards and his scream of pain as his face was thrown onto the stove, the flame turned on and his throat cut. I began sobbing. Sweeney's voice was now a mere whisper, though when I turned to look at him he was still screaming, his skin peeling off of him. But I heard Seamus' voice and suddenly I wish that I hadn't just talked with him about the movies. I wished I had kissed him. I wish I had finally told him that I was Hermione. Though he had probably guessed by now. I paused for a moment, gripping my wand, my hand sweaty. I blinked and Sweeney's voice was loud and clear and suddenly I was fearful that the neighbors might hear. I rushed up to him and took my hands to his head, my touch burned him. In that moment I became a killer. I took his head in my hands and in one fast swoop and twisted it as hard as I could, until I heard a crack. Until the street was filled with the lonely solitude and silence that I had pained for in the last minute. He lay limp on the ground.

The rest of the night is a blur.

I know that I disposed of the body, but just how I, to this day, am not sure of. I know I did not cook him into meat pies as Sweeney's accomplice: Misses Lovett does, though I find her character intriguing.

I know that I found my way home and I know that I locked all my doors.

I also know that the next morning I woke with a terrible headache.

OxOxO

I stepped out of the church, mystified and what and why I had just done the thing that I had just done. I had quit my job. When I announced this to Joan and Dora (Carol was still out) they both started sobbing. Frankly, I'd had enough sobbing for one week and I hugged them, wished them good luck and beaten a hasty retreat to the streets of Cork. I had no idea what I was going to do but I knew that I couldn't live like a Muggle anymore. Strangely, the killing was exhilarating. It wasn't fun to me. Yet. But that first murder, well self-defense murder, brought the excitement back into my life. I loved magic suddenly, and I needed to be closer to it.

Three hours later I found myself on a small prop plane headed for London. My apartment was sold and I had only one suitcase filled with clothes, my wand, some cash, my favorite book: Marry Poppins by P.L. Travers and a new acquisition that I had picked up at a second hand book shop, the stage script to Sweeney Todd.

I did not go and see Seamus is Sweeney Todd when he was in it and I was intrigued by this killer, this man who showed up under the alias of Sweeney Todd. The story, to this day, fascinates me beyond no end and it set up a lot of what I did in London (as you will soon see).

I began reading the forward, a note by Christopher Bond- the man who adapted the original story and original 1970s Broadway script into this smaller Chamber version. It wasn't interesting but it passed the time. I did learn though, about the actual Fleet Street. And I knew that that had to be my first stop in London.

xX… WELL? …xX


End file.
